


Do Something Safe for the Picture Frame

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk, Wanted (2008), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Community: kink_bingo, Crossover, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles has insomnia. Wesley and Erik aren't helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Something Safe for the Picture Frame

Wesley and Erik are fucking in the next room. Wesley and Erik are fucking in the next room and it's driving Charles crazy because the walls are fucking paper thin and he can't sleep and his Erik, because Erik is _his_ according to the law of "I saw him first and therefore" is making these low, guttural sounds which Charles is certain is on purpose, and his traitorous brother is groaning obscenely, "Fuck me, Erik. Yes, please. Harder. Now."

Correction: Wesley and Erik are _rutting_ in the next room.

And Charles, Charles has a headache and a hard-on and he can't fucking sleep.

I am Darwin's complete and utter lack of surprise.

*

"See, Charles, the problem with you is -" Wesley says, and once upon a time Wesley used to be an accounts something with a boss that Charles met once at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting, the one who went, "This fucker is the sick prick that drove me to overeat in the first place," and burst into tears, to Charles' complete and utter shock ("I assure you mam, I am not in accounting and I would never behave in such a rude manner towards you, I was raised polite.") and all his plans for the evening flew right out the window. "My name is Charles, not Wesley. His name is Wesley? Wesley, you say?"

But what of all his plans, then:

"I'm Charles and I am less than a hundred and fifty pounds but I have body image issues so please ignore how bird thin my shoulders are in under my ill-fitting shirt and cardigan." He would sleep soundly for a month, hopping meetings like a bar: Overeaters Anonymous, Anorexics Support Group, I have Bulimia. _Hi I'm Charles, and when I get anxious, or nervous - every day, really, I stick my fingers down my throat and throw up all my dinner._

All that, gone to hell, because of that one obese woman and a name. Oh, and Erik. Cannot forget Erik.

*

Hi, I'm Charles, and I used to be a geneticist, but now I'm just a loser who's sitting across a kitchen table from a man that is genetically identical to me in every which way (save for the fact that he's fucking what's mine), from the unmanageable hair to the blue eyes to the lips and those lips are about to say something extremely important, which is:

"You were born with a silver spoon up your ass, and you've spent your entire life trying to compensate for the fact that you've never had to struggle for anything. So you give of yourself, willingly, helpfully, and then when it gets too much you can't take it and you go and you cry into the tits of some man with testicular cancer and it makes you feel, for once, less like a pushover." Wesley stretches, and when his t-shirt rides up Charles can see bruises mottling the skin of his belly like a brand. Idly, he wonders if they were made by Erik or someone else. "You're a cocksucker," Wesley continues easily, as if he's one to talk, "and you're getting one over on those pathetic fucks in absolutely the most inconsequential way possible. Because they don't actually give a fuck if you're a fraud, and if they do find out, well, they're self-hating bastards to begin with, aren't they?"

He starts to clap, slowly, and Charles wants to pound his face into the floor. Charles wants to scrape his skin over concrete and slowly watch as the skin tears off in pieces. Wants to laugh as he slams his boot down and listens to the delicious snap of a jaw breaking. Charles wants to destroy him, entirely and completely and without reservation.

Instead.

"I feel like a cup of tea. Would you like a cup of tea, Wesley."

And Wesley, the bastard who only exists because of a genetic anomaly, the collapsing of a blastocyst that split progenitor cells into two, six minutes younger and Charles is convinced, if only one of them existed it would be _Charles_ , the one who went to Oxford for God's sake - Wesley laughs. "Yeah, I'll take your cup of tea."

And your hot as fuck and just as crazy friend Erik as well, he doesn't say, but it's implied in his grin.

Charles barely manages to stop himself from hitting him over the head with the teapot.

He is not a man that gives in to violence, except when in the ring. He's a disgraced scientist and a vegetarian and an atheist and a man that values peace and understanding, above all else. Not a man that would hurt even a fly.

Still, when Erik deigns to enter the room, all neatly pressed khakis and polo shirt and exquisitely gelled hair, for all the world as if he hadn't been, mere hours ago, grunting like an animal, Charles has to grip the teapot tight before it swings at a head that's identical to his in every other aspect except that it's grinning smugly and once had Erik Lehnsherr's cock down its throat.

"I'll take a cup of tea too, Charles," and there's only a trace of mockery in Erik's voice.

"I don't have enough for all three of us." Churlish and petulant, but at this point he doesn't care.

He is Darwin's complete and utter lack of giving a fuck, excuse the French.

"Then make some more." It's an order, not a request, and as he slides smoothly into the empty chair nearest to Wesley's, Charles feels tempted to brain him too. Except, knowing Erik, the son of a bitch would probably enjoy that. "Well, don't just stand there, Charles."

And the way he looks Charles up and down, hot and invasive in exactly the same manner as he had when he first showed up at Charles' Narcotics Anonymous meeting group:

"I'm Erik Lehnsherr and I'm addicted to pain and obsession and I'm here to demonstrate - sorry I meant share, what it's like to shoot a man in the head. No, I take that back, I did in fact mean demonstrate."

There were only five people besides Erik there that day:

The Group Leader: Erik patted his face gently as he begged for his life, said, "You won't tell anyone will you." The man promised he would take it to his grave, and he was telling the truth.

Victim Number One: Shot in the head with a vintage Beretta handgun, _Old School_ , and as Charles realized later, Erik liked to live his life as if he were in a James Bond movie, like the cold war still existed and everything was all clandestine meetings and conspiracy theories about who was to run the world. "He deserved to die, Charles," Erik said afterwards, as if there were such a thing. "He was a bad man. Did terrible, no-good things. Narcotics was the least of his vices."

Victims Number Two and Three: The bad man's henchman. "They don't matter," Erik said.

The Kid That Showed Up High: Erik laughed, and dragged him up by his wavy red hair. "Say no to drugs," he said, and shoved him in the direction of the door. Kid ran, and never looked back.

Charles: Standing there in his sweater-vest with his hands in his pockets ready to give the confession he'd been aching to throw out the entire fucking morning, _I'm ~~Professor~~ Charles Xavier and I am an addict._

"Interesting," Erik said. "What on earth are you doing here." And Charles thought, this madman, this crazy professional serial killer or murderer or assassin knew him somehow, but all he'd meant was: You are an absolute fraud, and I see you for what you are.

*

"Are you fucking him because you can't have me." He has to ask this. Has to. Even if it means he'll feel humiliated for the rest of his short, worthless life, and have to leave the club, leave Erik, even leave fucking Wesley behind.

Erik puts his hands on his knees, replies thoughtfully, "Oh I could always have you, Charles. I could have you now, on this table, on your knees, and you'd beg for it." He raises his brow as Charles opens his mouth to protest, as Wesley chuckles under his breath, and they both immediately snap to attention obediently. Twins, almost. "But you don't know who you are," he continues smoothly, as if there had been no interruption at all. "And Wesley does. I'll admit, he's not you." That gaze again, filled with a promise that he won't fulfill, "But he's a pretty good likeness, don't you think."

Wesley's back to looking amused, but at least he's not smirking anymore.

"Go to hell," Charles says. He was happy before all of this. Or if not, then as close an approximation as one could get without the help of illegal substances. He had his books (Organization of the Genome Structure, The Origin of The Species, The Journal of Heredity), he had his meetings (Anger Management, Addiction, Agoraphobia, Bullying, Bulimia, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Cocaine, Depression) and he was doing just fucking _fine_ , thank you very very much and I'll see you on the way home, sir. Don't kill three people in front of me and expect me to follow you like a dog wagging its tail, sir.

"Go to hell," Charles says again, because Erik used to kill people for a living, but now he runs a fight club and fucks Charles' twin and spends hours perfecting his hairstyle and talks about how he killed that one guy he'd been chasing his entire life, right in front of Charles no less.

"Killed my mother," he told Wesley once.

"Mine kinda tricked me into killing my father," Wesley commiserated.

Revenge is sweet, but then there's nothing left. And Charles, who has never hated anyone enough to want them dead, kept silent.

There's nothing left except, maybe, making Charles' life as miserable as possible. Privately, Charles knows, Erik thinks fight clubs are a ridiculous waste of time and energy. "For people who have never faced real danger in their lives. Real fear. I only spill blood when it matters," he told Charles once. "When I have to." Charles didn't ask then, and he won't ask now, why the fuck he's running this damned thing then. Erik's reasons have always been his own.

"It's not that you're not brave, Charles," Erik tells him, and his fingers are on Charles' face, probing gently at bruises that are fresh that are overlaid over bruises that aren't that are barely coping with split skin. "You're plenty brave. I've seen that in the ring. It's that you've never had anything in your life worth killing for. Or dying for, for that matter. Do you even have a purpose?"

"Do you," Charles says hotly, and if there are tears on his face it's because Erik's pressing into sensitive skin too fucking hard. "What do you want from me?" You started this. You brought me here and you shook everything to pieces and you bathed my body in blood and I can't breathe when you're around and I can't sleep either so tell me what you fucking want.

"I want you to fight," Erik says, simply.

I am Darwin, hurtling back towards biblical times, where brother killed brother and it was fucking _sweet._

**Author's Note:**

> For the **bites / bruises** square, and also [this prompt](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/7315.html?thread=11826579).


End file.
